


a little dose of liquid courage

by andreaphobia



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: (Or is it?), Drunk Lance, Drunk confessions, Keith taking care of drunk Lance, M/M, Piggyback Ride, That's not a euphemism, funny to sappy, tune in next time to find out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2016-08-01
Packaged: 2018-07-28 15:21:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7646413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andreaphobia/pseuds/andreaphobia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lance has a little too much to drink, and Keith ends up having to deal with the fallout.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a little dose of liquid courage

**Author's Note:**

> So I saw [this one picture](http://gretateg.tumblr.com/post/147469136908/they-are-back-3-dorky-fluffy-potatoes-are) of drunk Lance hitting on Keith, and then words happened. Hooray!
> 
> Disclaimer: I'm not endorsing binge drinking, and alcohol poisoning is not a joke. Please enjoy responsibly!

So after yet another glorious victory in which they beat back Zarkon’s crack troops, send ‘em high-tailing it right out of the solar system, and free the beleaguered citizens of yet another planet from tyranny—there is, of course, a party. There’s _always_ a party, because how else would the citizens of Krobelia express their gratitude to Voltron, savior of their planet, defenders of the whole entire universe? (It’s not as if a thank-you note will cut it, after all.)

Which brings us to this point. Here they are, mingling with the roughly-humanoid native species of yet another planet freed from under the heel of Zarkon’s cruel space-boot, and Keith is bored out of his goddamn mind. Pidge has long since disappeared; she made the necessary noises and niceties, then buggered off to the lab the second no one was looking. The two Alteans have got their hands full with the whole diplomacy shtick—makes sense, considering they’ve got about ten thousand years of schmoozing to make up for—and Shiro, ever the responsible one, is tailing them around the castle, their official-unofficial security detail.

The thing that Keith finds really disappointing at this moment, though, is Hunk’s absence. Usually, he hangs out with Keith at these little shindigs, functioning as a sort of friendly mobile comfort zone—but not today. As it turns out, the alien race they’ve just rescued is really, _really_ into high cuisine. Practically a national sport, or so Keith has been given to understand. In essence, what this means is that Hunk has found his people.

So. He’s probably off somewhere, enriching his life with meaningful cultural exchanges based on shared values. In the meantime, Keith is standing amidst a huddle of happy Krobelians who barely come up to his waist, gnawing morosely on a hunk of meat that tastes roughly like chicken (if you manage to ignore all the scales).

It’s not much fun on his own, but parties have never really been Keith’s thing, anyway. Besides, he’d rather be on his own than with Lance. Speaking of Lance, he’s managed to find the alcohol, and he’s letting everyone know in the most obnoxious way possible.

“WHOOOO!” he’s yelling, at anyone who will listen. “I CAN’T FEEL MY FACE!”

He throws himself forward in a lopsided cartwheel, very nearly overturning an entire banquet table in the process. Apparently under the impression that the near miss was intentional, as opposed to a lucky accident, several little Krobelians applaud raucously.

“How nice to be young,” sighs a nearby Krobelian, his many-faceted eyes brimming with nostalgia. “You paladins are so _boisterous_ , aren’t you?”

“Uh,” says Keith, unconvincingly. “I guess so?”

He’s aware that, at this point in time, the prudent thing to do would be to turn around, just pretend he never saw anything, and leave. Because—and this is a point of view that has been borne out through long experience—nothing good ever came of getting involved with Lance, especially a thoroughly inebriated Lance. But, as he’s watching Lance strip off pieces of his paladin flight suit in preparation for climbing onto a table to do God only knows what, a tiny little voice pipes up in Keith’s head.

The little voice says: _Lance is so drunk that he’s probably going to fall off that table and break his neck. Wouldn’t that be a shame?_

Keith considers this, long and hard.

Finally: _Would it, though?_ he thinks. _I mean, really. Like,_ really _really._

 _Yes, really really_ , the voice answers sternly. _Unless you want Voltron to be missing a leg. That’s an important thing to have on your giant robot. And—_ the voice adds, with the air of someone playing their trump card— _it would make Shiro sad._

Which is probably true. Shiro _would_ be sad if Lance threw himself off a piece of furniture and snapped his own neck. And even Lance agreed that making Shiro sad was—in his words— _no bueno_. (Not that this stopped him from acting out, but at least it was something they all agreed on.)

Unable to shake the lingering feeling that he’s about to do something unwise, Keith nevertheless strides forward purposefully, squeezing through the press of excited little aliens to seize Lance’s arm before he manages to get his leg over the table. Lance turns to look at him, and his face lights up.

“Ayy, Keith, my guy!” Lance says, in the kind of _so-excited-to-see-you_ tone that golden retrievers would use, if they could talk. “You’re lookin’ as fine as ever, aren’t you?”

“Shut up,” Keith mutters. He’s hyper-aware of all the curious little eyes watching them, trying to make sense of their strange human rituals. “We’re going outside.”

“Huh? Why? But I was gonna teach them how to do the macarena!”

“I have no idea what you’re saying,” Keith snaps at him, and swaps his grip onto Lance’s collar in order to start dragging him away. Lance, stumbling backwards and tripping over his own feet, is the picture of confusion, but fortunately is way too tanked to put up much of a fight.

“Oh... well, okay!” He waves merrily at his Krobelian audience. “Bye, everyone! I’ll see you later!”

The little aliens wave back, some of them making sounds of disappointment as the night’s entertainment is bodily dragged away. And while Keith is cringing internally at being forced into the role of the ‘boring adult’, it occurs to him: this must be what Shiro feels like _all the time_. (He makes a mental note to be nicer to Shiro, which—well, frankly, he should be doing anyway.)

Once they’re outside the main hall and the doors shut behind them, turning the volume on the party down to a distant buzz, Keith finally releases his death-grip on Lance’s collar, allowing him to straighten up.

Lance makes a big show of dusting himself off. Then, catching Keith’s eye, he does an exaggerated cartoon double-take, which he follows with a low whistle.

“He _-llo_ there, pretty mama,” he says, smoothly. “Now what’s a paladin like you doin’ in a place like this?”

“How about you stop talking now,” Keith says, flatly. (Not that he actually expects this to work, because... you know... _Lance_. But it’s worth a try.)

Lance only winks at him. Then he tries to lean suavely against the wall, misses by several feet, and falls to the ground instead. While he’s lying in a heap on the floor, groaning, Keith decides that now is a good time to be helpful.

He leans over Lance, and says, helpfully, “You are so drunk.”

“Owww,” Lance answers, cradling his own head at an awkward angle. “Y’know. I hate to admit it, but. You might just be right. This time, anyway.” He straightens out so that he’s lying on his back, and stares blearily at the ceiling. “Maybe I’ll just lie here for a bit.”

“Oh, great,” Keith mutters.

But Lance isn’t listening. He squints for a second or two, apparently trying to focus on Keith, then asks quite sincerely, “Why are there three of you?”

Keith sighs. It’s becoming clear to him that he really should’ve thought things through before getting involved. At the time, he’d sort of assumed that removing Lance from immediate danger was where his responsibilities would end.

Well, everyone makes mistakes.

“You’re not going anywhere, are you?” he asks Lance, in a rather hopeless tone.

Lance’s eyes cross slightly, as he thinks this over. Then he says, “Nope. You mind staying where you are, though?” He waves vaguely towards Keith, still leaning over him “You’re blocking out the light, and that feels good.”

Keith just glares down at him, and then looks up to glare at the lights overhead, too, for good measure. On some level, he understands that there’s no point in being mad at Lance, because he really only has himself to blame. He could’ve walked away, or eaten another scaly chicken leg, or found some friendly Krobelian to talk to—literally anything. But oh no, he just had to try and help, and this is what he gets in return: a drunk guy rolling around at his feet, whining incoherently about how the floor isn’t soft enough.

And yet—

And yet, Keith knows he can’t just walk away. Not in good conscience. The others might think he’s cold-hearted, but he really isn’t. He’s just... practical. And right now, given the circumstances, there is a real, practical chance that Lance could throw up and drown in a puddle of his own puke.

He kneels by Lance, whose eyelids have started to flutter weakly, like he’s fighting off sleep, and says in a low voice, “If you tell anyone about this— _anyone_ —I will kick your ass to Earth and back. Got it?”

Lance just mutters something disjointed; Keith can’t quite make it out, but he catches a phrase that sounds suspiciously like ‘stuffed-crust pizza’. Which... okay, _might_ be cause for concern, but he’s sure Lance is fine. He’s not an expert, but he once read about the symptoms of alcohol poisoning, and Lance is only displaying like, two of them. So he’s definitely probably all right.

 _Probably_. All the same, Keith steps up the pace of his movements a couple notches, hooking his arms under Lance’s to heave his whole unresisting body to his feet. Ignoring Lance’s little mumbles of protest, Keith squats down, and after some wrangling, manages to maneuver Lance onto his back. This whole process is executed with great difficulty, especially considering the fact that Lance is several inches taller than him—but never let it be said that Keith doesn’t appreciate a challenge.

So this is how he ends up giving Lance a piggy-back ride, for the first and hopefully last time ever in their lives. It’s actually kind of a blessing that everyone else is occupied at the moment, because he doesn’t want to know what Pidge would say if she happened to see them like this. (Nothing good, he expects.) Lance is slumped against his back, a warm, semi-comatose weight, with his arms lying in a loose tangle somewhere over Keith’s chest. In the meantime, Keith’s arms are hooked around Lance’s legs to hold him up, fingers taut against the insides of Lance’s thighs.

For about half a minute, it’s actually quite peaceful, because somewhere in the middle of being picked up and carried like a sack of potatoes, Lance appears to have dozed off. Sadly, this only serves to lull Keith into a false sense of security, which is shattered when Lance comes to and the first thing he does is snuffle sleepily against Keith’s ear, like a puppy.

Keith never yelps nor lets go of Lance, but it’s a close call. Unaware that he’s just about doubled Keith’s heart rate in the space of three seconds, Lance mumbles woozily, “Where are we going?”

Keith sucks in a breath through his teeth, then lets it out again nice and even, as though this will keep his voice steady. “To your room,” he says.

“Oh.” Keith feels the arms around his chest tighten a little. Almost— _tenderly_ , not that Keith has any experience with words like that. Then, voice muffled against the side of Keith’s neck, Lance says, “—you feel really good, you know.”

“Shut up,” Keith mutters, for what feels like the hundredth time that night. A deep flush suffuses his neck and throat, starting from where Lance’s breath tickles his skin, rising up to his face to flood his cheeks with heat. “Stop talking or I’ll drop your ass.”

“Drop my ass in your bed,” Lance says. Then he laughs, and clings on a little tighter, like he’s afraid Keith really will dump him onto the floor. “Kidding... I’m kidding,” he murmurs. “I’m sorry. Don’t drop me.”

For a while, they’re both quiet, though this doesn’t really calm Keith down much. It might just be his imagination, but he thinks he can feel Lance’s heartbeat knocking against his back, through his ribcage; a quiet, steady rhythm, like footsteps to lead him home. This close, maybe Lance can feel his heartbeat, too. (It’s certainly beating hard enough to be heard, and Keith isn’t sure that’s all from exertion, either.)

Then Lance whispers, “Keith?”

Half-dreading what’s coming next, half-hoping and not even knowing what he’s hoping for, Keith says, “What.”

But Lance doesn’t answer right away. He shifts his head away from Keith’s shoulder, so that his nose gets buried in Keith’s hair when he nuzzles the back of his neck; breathes in, breathes out, like he’s waiting for the right moment to reveal a secret.

Then: “I like you,” he says, quietly.

Keith tries not to notice the way his breath catches in his own throat. He feels a strange tingling in his extremities; a kind of warmth blossoming from his fingertips, flowing into his chest. Keeping his eyes down, he focuses his attention on his feet, putting one in front of the other and then repeating this process on the other side—forcing himself to keep walking, to not react. Lance isn’t that easily deterred, though, and now that he’s got the words out, it’s as though he can’t stop.

“I really, _really_ like you,” he goes on, in the same relentless murmur. “I like you a lot.”

Keith’s lips move, forming the words _shut up_ , but not quite managing to voice them. His throat has gone dry; his voice has fled. He tries to clear his throat without Lance noticing, but ineffectually, and in the meantime Lance continues.

“I’m crazy about you,” he whispers, somewhere against Keith’s hair. “Have been, ever since I saw you. Mullet and all. The whole package.” He breathes out, then; one shuddery breath, full of longing, that stirs Keith’s hair like a tiny gust of wind. “I... _like_ you.”

Keith swallows, finally finding his voice.

“—You’re drunk,” he says. His voice comes out weak and hoarse; nothing like himself. In this moment, he barely recognizes the person he’s become.

“Yeah.” Lance chuckles, low and easy in his throat. “But I still like you.”

And, in some small, crazy way, Keith... _knows_ this. Maybe he’s always known. But life was easier if he pretended not to know—pretended not to notice the way Lance looked at him, the way Lance smiled at him when he thought no one else was looking. After all, Keith’s a simple guy; he prefers simplicity in all things.

But things are never so simple, not when Lance is involved.

And quietly—so, so quietly, as though if he says it softly enough, he can pretend that it never really happened—Keith whispers, “I know.”  

He _feels_ , rather than sees, Lance’s smile, curled against the side of his neck; feels the laughter, so low that it’s more like a soft, satisfied hum.

“Good,” Lance mumbles. “‘S important. That you know. Otherwise...”

He doesn’t finish his sentence, and by the time they finally arrive at his room, he seems to have dozed off again. He doesn’t stir much as Keith puts him to bed, but when the covers are pulled over him, he mumbles something, rolls onto his side, and starts snoring loudly.

Keith watches him for a while, though he doesn’t quite understand why he’s experiencing the urge to do so. Eventually, though, he steps back outside, taking care to move quietly. He palms the reader beside the doors, and they slide shut behind him.

Then, tension flooding out of him all at once, Keith collapses bonelessly back against the doors. His knees give way and he slides down until he’s sitting on the floor, hunched over, resting his burning face in his hands.

The next time Lance tries to drink, Keith decides, he’s just going to do them all a favor and knock Lance out cold. It’ll save them a bunch of time, and anyway, the things that Lance says when he gets a little alcohol in his system—well, let’s just say that they’re not good for his heart.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [Tumblr](http://andreaphobia.tumblr.com) and [Twitter](http://www.twitter.com/andreaphobia), let's be Voltron buddies! :D
> 
> Comments and kudos are very much appreciated. ^_^


End file.
